Lost in Translation

Demon Baby is very clever. Lately, if he finds that his older brother and sisters are not letting him have his way, he comes into my office and says, "Older Brother won't let me play with his Nintendo." Or "Older Sister won't let me eat candy for breakfast." To which I reply, "You don't play nice with Older Brother's things, so he is justified in that," or "Because candy isn't breakfast food."

He nods. Then he toddles off, and I can hear him go to them, "SHE SAID that if you don't let me play Nintendo she is going to chop your head off." (This is Demon Baby after all.) Or "SHE SAID to let me have candy and ice pops for breakfast and if you don't, she will put you in time-out and then put you on a space ship and send you to outer space." (One, Oldest Sister is 18; two, I don't have those kind of connections at NASA or I already would have sent Demon Baby into orbit.)

Something is getting lost in the translation.

Betty Friedan and Me

Today, every time I sat my writer's ass down in my writer's chair to work, Demon Baby beckoned me. What did he need? The list was endless:

Pull up my pants
Get me orange juice
Make me noodles
You didn't make them right, make 'em again
Wipe my butt
Pretend I am a dog and pet me in my doghouse
Wipe my butt (this is my official job since no one else in the house is interested in toilet training)
More juice
Play "boat and pirate"
Dance
Change your iPod to the Clash
Kiss me
No, don't kiss me, because you have cooties and are gross
Get me cheese (the cheese fetish this kid has is alarming)


You get the idea.

And I am reminded of Betty Friedan:

"It is urgent,” she said, “to understand how the very condition of being a housewife can create a sense of emptiness, non-existence, nothingness in women. There are aspects of the housewife role that make it almost impossible for a woman of adult intelligence to retain a sense of human identity, the firm core of self or ‘I’ without which a human being, man or woman, is not truly alive. For women of ability, in America today, I am convinced there is something about the housewife state itself that is dangerous.”

Now, I am not--narrowly speaking--a housewife. In fact, in some ways, I am something even more exhausting. I am a full-time writer, supporting my family as I work from home, with no child care help and very little support, with four children, doing all those empty chores . . . while trying to preserve a sense of me.

And into this world Demon Baby was born.

It is difficult, even with this blog, to convey the very idea that not FIVE minutes can go by without something crashing, without him needing ME. And I cannot tell you how often I hear Betty Friedan whispering in my ear. Mocking me, maybe. "Your IQ? Twenty books published? A butt wiper?"

So it has been that Buddhism and service has been my salvation. The very idea that the ACT of love, of sacrifice, is a religious or spiritual ritual in and of itself.

I do it imperfectly. I really do. But I strive to see this altar of my Demon Baby as something beautiful. The idea that I was here when he took his first breath in this world. And one day, perhaps, he will be by my bedside as I take my last, but somehow, the cosmic umbilical cord remains. He is mine, and I am his, and we are forever linked.

Don't get me wrong . . . Freidan spoke of something very real. She spoke of the mind-numbing reality of running a household.

But I guess, today, as I watch my Demon Baby sleep . . . I see something more, something different.

I see love.

Funny

Demon Baby just screamed for me.

"MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I need your help!!!!"

He was in the bathroom, so I jumped up from my desk. "What's the matter?" I called from the outside of the bathroom.

"My pants are UNLOCKED!!!!!"

He came out, with his jeans shorts unsnapped, and sort of thrust his belly toward me. "Lock them again!"

Tattoo You

I feel quite certain that Demon Baby will one day be a heavy metal rocker with multiple piercings, a mohawk, and tattoos.

As if to confirm the latter . . .

Anytime it is "too quiet"--that hair standing up on the back of my neck, I know he is in trouble quiet--I come to discover he has marked up his body from head to toe with magic markers. I have hidden every Sharpie in the house--the permanent kind. But with six of us, it is nearly impossible to hide every pen. And now that Demon Baby is toilet-trained, he goes alone to the bathroom--AND knows how to lock the door.

Hence, his legs are green today. His hands black. And he's got some pink around his belly button.

A sign of what's to come one day?

My Morning

By 9:00 a.m. today, Demon Baby and I had been to The Dollar Store and the grocery store. These trips, alone, I could have done in a combined total of 45 minutes. Tops. Including driving there and back. Instead, it took an hour and a half because Demon Baby no longer likes to ride in the cart and instead prefers to HELP me push the cart, and since I value the lives of innocent grocery store workers, and senior citizens shopping who can't move quickly out of the way, I must wrestle with him and the cart to keep it from careening wildly and causing a disaster. In addition, I answered 987 questions from Demon Baby, 986 of which began with WHY?

WHY did a bird poop on our car?
WHY did someone leave a penny on the ground?
WHY does our cart have a wobbly wheel?
WHY doesn't the grocery man FIX the broken wheel?
WHY do you look tired, Mommy?
WHY can't I have this candy?
WHY? WHY? WHY?

Is it any wonder by 9:00 a.m. I'm ready for a nap? But trust me, he isn't.

Stating the Obvious

I was feeling very snuggly about Demon Baby. Sometimes, I just don't want him to get bigger. I miss those true "baby" days.

We were walking down the stairs in our house and he was behind me. I turned and said, "Hey . . . do you want me to carry you down?"

"No. That's okay. I have feet."

Demon Baby at the Beach

It's easy to forget how much trouble he gets into sometimes when I look at pictures.